


As You Are, As a Known Enemy

by kelleigh (girlfromcarolina)



Series: Salt Burn Porn [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: salt_burn_porn, Compulsion, Consent Issues, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Episode: s05e04 The End, Episode: s05e10 Abandon All Hope..., Inspired by Poetry, Lucifer!Sam, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 07:31:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4820624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's beautiful.  Too beautiful so Dean knows it can't be real.  Something created by the one he knows better than himself and not at all, just for Dean.  That makes him feel worse.</p><p>Spoilers for 5.04 'The End', but set after 5.10 'Abandon All Hope'.<br/><b>prompt.</b> <i>you say yes, I will take you, I will love you, again.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	As You Are, As a Known Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> **warnings.** Elements of this could definitely be considered dub!con, as Dean is not in a position to change his surroundings, but he gives willingly. Compulsion. Incest. Dirty talkin' devils.
> 
> Prompt from a poem by Emily Bass (see end notes).

When Dean falls asleep it's not quite dark outside. Distant fires set the horizon aglow and the air is thick and weighted with sorrow and loss. Across the Midwest similar fires are burning—plains and skies setting funeral pyres for lost souls when there are so few left here to bury the dead. The living are too busy trying to stay that way.

But Dean needs to sleep if he plans to get up and fight another day. Fighting is all he has left—that and his brother still loyal and sober beside him. Sam is already unconscious in the dreary room's second bed—passed out or dreaming, Dean doesn't know.

The first prickles of oblivion weigh in the corners of Dean's eyes and soon he's surrounded by blackness. That's the biggest clue he's no longer awake; the skies never go completely dark these days, even at night.

Something thin and soft brushes across Dean's palm. Swallowed by the pitch he can't see it, but he knows what it is. They are all around him, blown by a draft Dean can't feel. Like phantom lips they caress his skin, animated by the power of an unseen hand.

Rose petals.

Dean takes a fistful and crushes them in his hand. They're _his_ favorite.

"You don't like them."

Suddenly there's light, pure and clean, shining through the tall form that's been cloaked by the darkness all this time, watching. _He_ stands to Dean's left wearing all black—no longer trying to fool anyone—and _his_ eyes are as brown as brandy, and have the same warming affect on Dean's nerves.

"I told you, you don't have to create...this." Dean's not sure if he's speaking or thinking; he can't feel the vibrations in his throat. "I'm not even here."

"I want you here."

Saying _you've got me now_ seems too cliche, though it's the truth. He could fight harder against this, against _him_ , but something pins Dean in this place between nothing and awake.

It's beautiful. Too beautiful so Dean knows it can't be real. A place created by the one Dean knows better than himself and not at all, just for Dean. That makes him feel worse. The room is opulent, rich and decadently appointed, but Dean won't look too closely at the carvings etched into ebony and cherry. The bed is covered in petals the color of blood; they veil the room with cloying sweetness and spill over the sides of the mattress. Thorny vines snake up the posts at each corner of the bed and create a breathing, moving canopy.

"Get me out of here."

 _He_ doesn't need to snap or wave his hands. _He_ merely thinks and it is. In a breath the opulence disappears and they're in another room, plain and mild and it's suddenly easier for Dean to breathe—if he's truly breathing at all. It's the kind of room he's seen a thousand times before, scattered across the country in small towns and backwaters.

"Is this better?"

Better isn't the right word. This scene is less likely to drive Dean out of his own head. And _he_ fits here despite the dark clothing. Sam's body seated on the rough duvet, nauseating pattern swirling under his thighs, looking at Dean to make the first move.

"Dean." That's Sam's voice, too. Actually Dean no longer doubts that _he_ is Sam, essential pieces of Dean's brother reassembled. _He's_ perfect though in a way Sam isn't, no longer bearing the scars and signs of a life at Dean's side. _His_ form and shape are in mint condition, exactly as Heaven and Hell originally intended—no longer a roadmap to battle—though Dean would take every imperfection back in a heartbeat.

But it is the way _he_ says Dean's name that makes him laugh.

"Am I?"

 _He_ tilts his head and considers his captive.

"Am I 'Dean'? Or are you here with Michael?"

"You are one and the same." Sam doesn't move any closer but Dean feels the space between them shrink. "He's my brother. You are my brother. Is that so hard to understand? To accept?"

It's not. Angels and demons have been shoving that bullshit down his throat for weeks.

"But I didn't call Michael here. I didn't even call you."

"But you want me here."

 _He_ smiles, so like Sam when Dean says something ridiculous.

"You need this."

"I don't."

"And you want this," _he_ continues as if talking to himself.

Now there's truly no space between them; the black clothes are gone and _he'_ s suddenly all skin and overwhelming aura pressed close on Dean's side of the bed.

"I'm here, Dean." Wet mouth on his neck, transmitting the words straight into Dean's bullet-riddled soul. "You can take me. Or give yourself over."

He's fallen into this dream enough to not care about doing it again. When his mouth connects with Sam's, Dean feels it like a chilling rush in his blood, sobering the effects of this place for a moment. And _he_ draws Dean back.

"You don't have to say yes to me."

Or maybe Dean already has, an infinite amount of times, and can't remember.

When Dean's here, he's never naked to begin with. It's possible that _he_ just wants the pleasure of stripping Dean, one more thing to show Dean that these scenarios aren't just a product of his own twists and torments. _He_ is here through some power or enchantment, and maybe Sam's here as well, lost on the other side of this intricate illusion.

Because there are certain things Sam would do to Dean, he knows. Dean's imagined how it would go so many times, fueled by his knowledge of Sam. Places only Sam would know to touch and grip. Only Sam will know that Dean's lips, when bitten, turn an alluring shade of red, or that Dean wants to be bitten beyond that point, until his whole mouth tingles with the rush of blood. Knowledge written into Sam's genes, carved onto his bones for the time to come when Dean stops fighting what could be between them.

On his back with Sam's weight on top of him, Dean's dream-form becomes a traitor. His brother's body heals the wounds and ragged flesh that daily battles—the ones breaking bone and splitting sinew—leave behind. _His_ hands mend what the real Sam carefully bandaged and swabbed, _his_ mouth supplying the elixir to soothe burns and drug his mind.

Intoxication. It's the only explanation as to why Dean's so eager here, bending to mirror _him_. He can be so close to Sam; it strengthens his resolve to make sure his brother never ends up—

"Didn't I tell you, Dean?"

 _His_ tongue traces the tendons stretched taut in Dean's throat, threatening to bite down with gentle pressure.

"You and I always end up here."

A strangled gasp—half plea, half desperation—gets caught in Dean's throat.

"You want that, though. Don't you?"

"No."

"Yes," _he_ counters. "But that's not important right now."

"No."

Sucking on Dean's tongue, _he_ ends the argument. Sam's skin is hot but does not burn as Dean once expected, and _his_ tongue tastes not of sulfur but of cheap mouthwash. The illusion gets deeper each time he's drawn here—more detailed and refined.

Their kiss becomes a battle, but _he_ lets Dean win. The victory spins Dean's mind, vertigo forcing him away from Sam's lips. Dizzy and needy he tries to find them again, chasing Sam's shadowed face in the strangely lit room.

"You've always loved me." _His_ teeth snag painfully on Dean's upper lip. "And you've always fought me."

Too much talking. Dean closes his eyes and moans for more, getting _his_ mouth back where it belongs. He yanks Sam roughly, pushing and pulling until Sam's beneath him, kissing turned fully to tongue-fucking with gnashing teeth. Even with a near perfect replica between his legs, Dean won't look down. He conjures his Sam behind his eyelids, squeezes into muscle and familiar flesh until he can almost hear Sam begging, pleas Dean can't deny.

"Yes, Sam—anything."

Sam's body stops rising—everything in the room ceases to move.

"You don't usually call me that."

Dean can't take it back. He finally looks down and sees _his_ eyes contemplate, hazel windows to the Fallen's mind.

"Because you're not—"

"Didn't I just tell you this?" _He_ flips them again, starts to pull Dean's shirt away to leave him wide open and bare. "I _am_ Sam. Every nerve and breath." Insistent hands push and force, moving on Dean's skin like _he's_ deciding where the marks and bruises _he_ could inflict would look best. "I'm what you want."

Stripping the last of Dean's clothes away, _his_ eyes turn molten and appreciative. Dean is always surprised that _he_ stops here when _he_ could just as easily keep stripping Dean layer by layer. His skin, his muscles, his life. All of it as easy to peel away as shirts and underwear. Then he's drowning in skin—Sam's against his, his tight with Sam's. Dean wants every inch even as he knows what deceit lies beneath it.

Dean goes cold when Sam's bulk looms over him. _He's_ kneeling astride Dean's chest, thighs a warm vise across his torso.

"Open up for me, Dean." 

The head of Sam's cock nudges Dean's lips, slipping across his chin and cheek when Dean doesn't obey.

"You and I already know you're going to."

Dean's not sure how much control he really has over this body, but his mind wants so it's difficult to hold out. Sam's scent surrounds him—real or just another deception—and fills his nostrils when he inhales. _He_ doesn't shove forward; Sam's cock glides along Dean's face in a dirty, soft caress. Slick and pungent, Dean _feels_ —compares it to what he knows about his Sam, whether he's asleep in that decrepit motel room or here, somewhere, with Dean. 

The idea that his Sam could be a piece of this, wanting _this_ , parts Dean's lips. _He_ unleashes when Dean sucks _him_ down. His mouth is full and straining, unable to choke and unable to gag. Unable to do anything but crave and taste, each spill of precome over his tongue leaves Dean shaking for more. _He_ stares down, face flushed in pleasure, hips rolling Sam's cock in and out while _his_ fingers slide over Sam's skin to touch the places Dean knows will give him a greater rush.

If Dean's stuck here, he intends on being more than just a receptacle, another kind of vessel. Keeping Sam's cock in his mouth, Dean reaches for _him_ , creating his own rhythm with his hands on Sam's flanks. One of _his_ hands stretches to roll Sam's balls lightly, pressing hard up underneath and bucking into Dean's face.

"So amazing, Dean—you don't know how you look when you're like this."

A mirror to see himself is the last thing Dean wants, worried he'll see a creature in place of Sam, and terrified by what he might see on his own face.

"I could keep you here and take this endlessly," _he_ mutters as he rides Dean's throat. "We could trap ourselves here and let the war wear itself out—come out only when it's done and the Earth is wiped clean of everyone."

Spit runs over Dean's chin, cooling his neck where it slides down, forced out of his mouth by Sam's thick flesh. His own cock has been hard since they started kissing, but it goes rock-solid now.

"We don't need anyone—anything else, Dean. Let the demons die, let the angels fade to nothing, and we can have it all. You and I. You and _Sam_."

Dean shoves himself up on his elbows and swallows as much of _his_ cock as he can—if only to shut _him_ up. Sam's body falls forward over Dean's face, fucking _his_ cock down into Dean's throat, messy and unrestrained. This way at least Dean can take hold of Sam's wrists, take back some control of the assault and connect them in a less obscene way. Dean grips tightly, white-knuckled, and feels the bones under skin and muscle shift against each other as _he_ tenses and pulls back.

"Dean..." _he_ gasps. "You're too good at that. I'll save that particular temptation for another time."

Sitting back on _his_ haunches, _he_ considers the marks on Sam's wrists. The imprints of Dean's hands shade the skin red. On Dean, such marks would be painful but to see them on Sam's body is worse. Unthinking, Dean leans up to check the irritation, but _he_ just chuckles with amusement in Sam's low voice.

"You can't hurt me."

Just as quickly Dean is forced back down. Sam's hair gets in his face and mouth as _he's_ nuzzling the join of Dean's neck and shoulder.

"Let it go, Dean. You can't scare me, I already know what you want." _He_ licks and tastes Dean's skin, thumbs swiping at Dean's chest. "Every touch from gentle to torturous means you love me."

Every part of _him_ is only inches away, so close to what Dean truly wants. This is _his_ most clever and diabolical disguise.

"Take it." Then harsher, " _take_ me."

He imagines that Sam would never beg—not like this, but Dean's still helpless at the sound of _his_ voice and he gives in. Dean takes this now to burn it away because he never wants it to be like this with the real Sam. His waking hours are spent in restraint, fighting to show Sam how worthy he is, while _he_ does his best to unravel those threads by giving Dean his every desire when he closes his eyes. Even here, Dean is only human.

Dean raises his knee and locks his leg around Sam's to pull _his_ legs wider apart. If he had the same powers, Dean would conjure bars and ropes to keep _him_ in place and at Dean's mercy. _He_ doesn't need a body to compel Dean—Sam's voice carries all the command _he_ needs.

"Give me...give me something," Dean hisses, pulling at Sam's ass with dry fingers as _his_ body moves against him. He won't—he can't—hurt Sam even with _his_ false permission. In an instant something warm and slick coats Dean's fingers. It could be blood. It could be holy water just to prove _he_ can take it.

Dean doesn't look. The lights in the room dim as if in response to Dean's wishes and he wonders just how much control he has over this place, if _he_ would let him—

"Open me, Dean," _he_ orders with little patience. 

One, two, and three fingers slide easily into Sam's body, more so than Dean ever imagined was possible. _He_ barely waits for Dean to pull him open and stretch Sam's body before he's rearing up and sinking down with a cry that could break the heavens. Here, Dean has fucked _him_ over and over—Dean's so used to _giving_ when it comes to Sam that _taking_ like this is the greater torture—but it still feels different every time. Tonight, Sam's body is tight, a punishing grip around Dean. _He_ works up and down, almost oblivious to the counter-motion of Dean's hips.

To Dean, their fucking here is fueled more by grief than passion—he's saving that part of himself for the day when it's finally Sam surrounding his cock. When his brother is breathing in and crying out the first few times Dean thrusts up into him. A dream far distanced from this one, but Dean knows as well as _he_ does that he won't hold out forever. Sam's looks already linger, igniting a slow burn and it's only a matter of time...

"Think, Dean," _he_ rasps. "Could have this—could have me."

"Don't want you," Dean manages to say though his throat aches from Sam's cock and holding back his own screams.

 _He_ laughs and the sound infuriates Dean. Catching his tormentor off guard, Dean fists into Sam's hair and yanks _him_ down. Forces _him_ close so Dean can bite at _his_ lips. The primal part of Dean wants to draw blood just to see if he can taste Sam somewhere in the creature seducing his body and mind.

"Why?" Dean chokes. "Why do you want this from me?"

"Don't you know?" Sam's ass squeezes around Dean—too tight, too much. "After all you've been told?"

Dean smacks his hand down on Sam's thigh, as much to ease the grip around his cock as to telegraph frustration. _He_ only holds Dean tighter and bends close to pour more sugared poison into Dean's ear.

"You can have this." _He_ undulates on Dean's cock, forcing him to pay attention. "All you have to do is take—he wants you to, Dean. He's wanted it since you were raised up and made whole again by my brothers. Even before that, when you were too afraid and he wouldn't ruin your new brotherhood."

"I can't—"

"You will. Someday you will. I never got to have this—my _brother_ didn't love me enough to fight Heaven, but yours..." _He_ bites the cartilege of Dean's left ear, hissing dangerously. "And maybe it will save you. Maybe it will damn you completely, but you'll have it."

"Why—"

"This way, no matter what happens, I'll live on. You may end me, Dean, but I will always live within you and Sam."

"Enough!" Dean screams and grapples until _he_ is bent and subjugated beneath him on the bed. He's torn between sheer want and sheer horror that he can be this rough. Sam's ass is gaping and wide for Dean to slide right back in, and with every punishing thrust comes a mantra of _never, never, never!_ Yet there are days Dean would give anything for this, to be able to lose himself in Sam and give back more than he already does. He wants it to happen, but not like this. Wants his mind _and_ body to give consent. 

Dean's strength is waning but _his_ is never-ending. _He_ rocks back into Dean's groin, ass hitting hard against Dean's thighs with a dull slap. Whatever lube _he_ conjured is running down the back of Sam's legs to mix with the sweat dripping off Dean. A long arm reaches back and swipes through the mess, bringing it forward to Sam's pink lips. Sam's long tongue laps in long, lewd passes over _his_ palm and _he_ moans.

"You taste just like my brother."

Mind blown, Dean's body quickly follows suit, spilling inside the shell of his brother's form with his own sky-splitting scream. He can't string together enough thoughts to care if _he_ comes or not, but Sam's body slumps forward onto the worn mattress with a sound that speaks of triumph. The way Dean feels—fucked-empty and used—he's surprised his body and mind have been able to withstand this for so many nights.

Dean falls next to _him_ on the bed, drawing what breath he can from the air that's suddenly thick and heavy—the illusion's inevitable end at dawn.

"You'll wake up soon."

Dean looks over at _his_ flawless face. More grief and terror await on the other side of this dream. Another day, another round of death and destruction until the bell rings. But Sam is waiting, too, and if Dean can't say what he needs to when he wakes up, he has no choice but to say it here and hope that _he_ is right. That there's a connection—horrible and divine—between his brother and this creature, if not more.

"Sam..."

 _He_ grins, more innocently than _he_ has during all this time.

"I'm so sorry," Dean whispers for Sam's ears only.

For a split second, Dean is shocked to see _his_ eyes go wide, lips apart as if to speak and warn Dean against coming closer. Dean doesn't kiss _him_ —he knows that he's kissing Sam, his little brother. Each touch is a question hoping for an answer when Dean wakes up. 

In the first kiss, Dean reiterates the forgiveness he already granted Sam. In the second and third, he _asks_ for the same, for the forgiveness he's been desperate to get and too cowardly to admit he needs. One kiss for his doubt, another for anger. And with the last, deeper yet softer than the others, Dean makes a promise. It's one he's already made, and will continue to make every night until this is over one way or another. It's a promise to keep fighting for the world and to be worthy of Sam's love again. Maybe even for the first time.

Rolling away, Dean sees the face before him morph and change into something else—eyes almost looking into Dean's with hope.

Then the light disappears and Dean rolls into the pitch just minutes before the radio clicks on with scratchy static. Cracking his eyelids and moving cautiously, Dean feels no pain. Absent are the aches he fell into this bed with, but there's a new sensation crowding into his mind—knowledge that this will all be over soon. Dean can feel it coming like pulling on a thread that's suddenly tense and stubborn. Time is growing short and there's so much Dean needs, so much he wants...

Sam's asleep but his nose is twitching—a sure sign he'll be up and growling at Dean in a few minutes. His brother's face is creased from the cheap pillowcase and Sam's snuffling as he's drifting back to consciousness.

He's still more beautiful than anyone who walks in Dean's dreams.

Lying back and waiting for the day to begin—one day closer to the end—Dean stretches and waits for Sam to wake up.

 

 

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

>  __ **the thing is...**  
>  to love life, to love it even  
> when you have no stomach for it  
> and everything you've held dear  
> crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,  
> your throat filled with the silt of it.  
> When grief sits with you, its tropical heat  
> thickening the air, heavy as water  
> more fit for gills than lungs;  
> when grief weights you like your own flesh  
> only more of it, an obesity of grief,  
> you think, How can a body withstand this?  
> Then you hold life like a face  
> between your palms, a plain face,  
> no charming smile, no violet eyes,  
> and you say, yes, I will take you  
> I will love you, again.  
>  **~emily bass**


End file.
